


Heartlines

by TheAndromedaRecord



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical Worms, First Kiss, M/M, Mutual Pining, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, You can imagine where this is going, but the major injuries are all canon ones, follows most of the canon plot beats but Soulmates, some slightly graphic descriptions of injuries, whatever scars/injuries you get appear on your soulmate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:00:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22297450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAndromedaRecord/pseuds/TheAndromedaRecord
Summary: Martin loved reading romance novels that unrealistically framed soulmates as perfect, but floundered when he thought about actually having one for himself. Martin practiced walking carefully just in case—if he met his soulmate, how would the man forgive him if he left bruises and cuts all over their bodies? Every time he met eyes with a man, he drove himself into hysterics over the slightest itch on his skin that could indicate a soul bond.As it turned out, he didn’t even realize when he and his soulmate first locked eyes.Jon doesn't think he has a soulmate. Martin tries to keep Jon from figuring out they're soulmates. Which is hard, considering the scars Jon keeps accumulating that trace their way over Martin's skin.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 249
Kudos: 853





	1. Chapter 1

Martin had always liked the idea of soulmates, and he very much hoped he didn’t have one, or at least he’d never meet his..

The whole concept was very romantic, of course—sharing the injuries and pain and scars of your loved one, bearing the burden of life and pain together. Martin still remembered when his parents laughed and traced delicate fingers over the scar they shared on their arm. And he still remembered the day all the dirty laundry was spilled out in the open, when his mother sliced her palm cutting onions and his father’s skin only showed a faint white scratch. 

His mother lectured him on soulmates constantly after that. It wasn’t worth it, she said, to love someone so deeply that you could literally feel their pain. She groused about how she hadn’t had a choice, how her skin had stung when she’d met his father, how from that day forward she had to share every paper cut and bruise. It was a great burden, Martin learned, to love and be loved. Love was literally pain, his mother taught. 

Martin loved reading romance novels that unrealistically framed soulmates as perfect, but floundered when he thought about actually having one for himself. Martin practiced walking carefully just in case—if he met his soulmate, how would the man forgive him if he left bruises and cuts all over their bodies? Every time he met eyes with a man, he drove himself into hysterics over the slightest itch on his skin. Several times, he thought he actually felt that burn his mother had described. He hoped he’d never know what it feels like. According to a few articles he found, it could feel different for everyone.

As it turned out, he didn’t even know when he and his soulmate locked eyes. 

He’d seen Jonathan Sims around, of course, when he started working at the Archives. He knew Jon was newer to the research department, and already one of Elias’s favorites. That was fine by Martin—the less attention Elias paid to him, the better. It was quite surprising when he got assigned to the Archives after Jon’s promotion. Martin might have been jealous that Jon was promoted after four years, if it weren’t for the fact his own ten years were built on a lie. Jon obviously thought he was incompetent, and not even for any of the reasons Martin was actually unqualified. He was just snippy and bitter, and Martin didn’t like him very much. He felt uncomfortably seen around Jon, as Jon’s eyes never slid over him—they landed on him with contempt, then skidded away as if he wasn’t worth looking at. And yes, Jon’s eyes were very pretty, and his hands were delicately beautiful, but that didn’t make up for the way Jon clearly couldn’t stand Martin. Martin tried to ameliorate it with hard work and occasional plates of cookies in the break room, to no avail. 

And then Martin got a papercut. 

Martin was typing in a followup to one of the more obviously fake statements when he felt a sharp pain in his finger. He muttered an “ow” and looked down at his left ring fingertip, which was bearing a very shallow yet obvious papercut. Martin didn’t have any paper within arm’s reach.

“Damn,” Jon swore as he walked out of his office. 

He stormed over to the tiny first aid kit on the wall and rummaged for a bandage. Martin could only stare as Jon wrapped it around his left ring fingertip. 

Jon returned to his office, and Martin just gazed, uncomprehending, at his screen. It was a coincidence, it had to be. There was no way his asshole boss was his soulmate. Yes, Jon was mildly attractive in the way Martin liked, but he’d been nothing but a jerk since Martin had started working under him.

Jon’s finger bled far more than Martin’s. It was a coincidence.

* * *

It was not a coincidence.

Jon was not clumsy, per se, but he seemed very annoyed at the fact that he was forced to inhabit a physical form he had no idea how to deal with. The amount of bruises he accumulated from furniture put a brazen middle finger to his short stature, and the statements cut his fingers like he owed them money. Fortunately, Martin seemed to experience those injuries at a smaller scale, but it was still annoying to hear a thud from the next room just as his leg started to throb. Martin was thankfully very careful, so Jon was none the wiser. Martin shuddered to think what Jon would do or think if he found out. 

Martin always waited for an innocuous amount of time before knocking on Jon’s door and innocently asking if he needed an ice pack or a bandaid. Left to his own devices, Jon would only treat any wound that was actively bleeding over his papers, and that meant they were slow to heal, which meant Martin had to keep dealing with them. Several times, he almost snapped at Jon to be more careful, as he wasn’t the only one whose skin was suffering. Martin always held his tongue, though. Jon would throw a fit.

* * *

Jane Prentiss didn’t hurt Martin. Which was a relief. Martin had no idea how he’d explain any sudden holes on Jon’s skin. Maybe he didn’t have to worry about it. After all, he probably wasn’t making it out of this flat alive, so if Jon did receive any soul marks, they’d be gone pretty fast.

* * *

Martin lay awake on the cot in document storage. There were no writhing worms, and his thoughts were for once not consumed by fear. Instead, he thought about Jon. He’d expected to be laughed out of the office, but Jon had believed him and offered him a cot. Not just any cot—Jon’s cot. 

He remembered the little downward quirk of Jon’s mouth, the way his eyebrows had raised slightly when Martin mentioned Prentiss. He was actually invested. Actually afraid and worried for Martin. Martin had stared at Jon for a few seconds too long after that, cataloging the gentle concern in his deep mahogany eyes, the ways his long and delicate fingers twisted nervously, the adorable way his lips pursed.

Martin curled up on his cot and clutched the thin blanket in his hands. Jon had gotten another papercut that evening, and Martin had bled, slow and pulsing and inevitable. The kind of tentative blood that indicated something blooming, something ill-advised, something that could be crushed before it had time to take root. 

He decided to start carrying around a first aid kit.

* * *

Elias had found out. Martin knew it. Why else would he have been called to the boss’s office for the first time since he’d been hired? This was about the fake resume. He’d get a firm dressing down for lying to everyone for 10 years, then be unceremoniously kicked out, forced into the long process of finding a new job. The home would kick his mother out if he couldn’t pay. She’d die without care. He had to keep his job. He resolved to beg if he had to, to convince Elias to keep him on as a janitor. He should have told Jon—no, he shouldn’t have, Jon would push for Martin to get transferred, alleging it was “unprofessional” for soulmates to work together when he was really just glad to get Martin out of the office.

The door opened, and Elias’s previous meeting exited, an old man with a cane and a twinkle in his eye.

“Come in, Martin,” Elias called. Martin obeyed, shuffling in and shutting the door behind him. He really didn’t want the others to see this.

“Apologies for the wait,” Elias smiled pleasantly. “That funding dispute took a little longer than expected.” He gestured to the chair on the other side of the desk. “Sit.”

Martin sat, trembling and silent.

“So,” Elias continued, “Martin, you’ve been with us for...about ten years, right?”

Martin swallowed. “Y-yes.”

“And in that time, Archival Assistant is the highest position you’ve received, correct?”

Martin nodded.

Elias smiled. “I think that’s a bit unfair, don’t you?”

Martin winced. Here came the lecture, when Elias put on a stern, detached, disappointed tone and told Martin all about how it wasn’t fair to let some liar and fraud take positions away from people who were actually smart and qualified, and Martin would nod and pretend to be deeply ashamed and walk out, not saying goodbye to his coworkers as he left for good.

“I mean,” Elias said, “Tim, Jon, and Sasha haven’t been here half as long as you. You’ve done consistently good work, and you’ve had some previous experience working with the Archives. I think a promotion is in order.”

Martin blinked. “W-what?” he spluttered.

“You’ll still be working under Jon, of course,” Elias went on, “and your responsibilities won’t change much, though I was hoping you would help him with his little audio project. I’ve got a full job description right here.” He handed a sheaf of paper to Martin, who could only stare blankly at it. “The position comes with a bit more responsibility, but better pay and the title of Archivist. Should you choose to accept it, of course.”

“Yes!” Martin said immediately. “Yes, of course I accept it!” He leapt to his feet and shook Elias’s hand. “Thank you very much, sir.”

As he exited the office, Martin couldn’t stop grinning. Despite his total lack of qualification, he’d done well enough to be an Archivist! Not on the merit of his resume, but on his merit! And the pay was better! His smile faltered a little as he thought of the others, though. Tim and Sasha would act happy for him but be jokingly (maybe not so jokingly) jealous, and Jon...well. Martin was confident that Jon wouldn’t let him touch the tape recorder with a ten foot pole. And Martin of all people being promoted? Jon had softened since Martin had started sleeping in the Archives, but he still wouldn’t be happy. 

He dragged his feet a bit on his way down to the Archives. Maybe he just shouldn’t tell them? No, that wouldn’t work. 

“What was that all about?” Tim asked as Martin stepped into the Archives.

“I, um.” Martin’s tongue was dry. He held up the paper. “I got a promotion. To Archivist.”

Tim’s eyes widened. “A promotion! That’s great!”

“Martin got a promotion?” Sasha emerged from behind one of the shelves. “Martin, that’s excellent! You deserve it.”

‘O-oh? You think so?”

“Of course!” Sasha walked over to clap him on the back. “You’ve been here longer than any of us, and you’re great at your job.”

“Not sure I’ll be great at this one, though,” Martin sighed, reading over the job description. “I’ve got no background in library science.”

“Neither does Jon,” Tim pointed out. “Hey, we should celebrate. Drinks on me tonight.”

“Okay,” Martin agreed. “Should we—should we invite Jon? I should at least tell him, right?”

As if on cue, Jon emerged from his office.

“What’s the racket out here?” he demanded. “You’re paid to work, not stand around and gossip.” He glanced around shrewdly. “There better not be another dog.”

“Jon! Hey!” Martin greeted, internally wincing at how high his voice got. “Um. There’s something you should know.” He held up the paper, no longer able to hide his grin. “I got promoted! I’m an archivist now. So, if you need, ah, help with the recording, or, all that, you know what, I’ll just email you the job description. I’ll still be able to help you with research, and anyway, we’re going out to celebrate tonight, do you want to come?”

Jon raised his eyebrows and gave Martin a long, considering look.

“Congratulations, I suppose,” he finally said. “I’ll...I’ll come to your little celebration.”

Martin beamed, and he was fully aware he was beaming far too much. “Great! Great.”

He practically skipped his way to the pub with an enthusiastic Tim and Sasha and a grumpy Jon. Maybe this wouldn’t go so bad after all.

* * *

Martin couldn’t help his giggle as he walked into the break room. Jon’s hair was sticking up in a frazzled halo, and he was staring at the microwave as if gazing into the void. His button-up was rumpled—he’d probably slept in it. 

“What’re you making?” Martin asked. 

Jon yelped and whirled around, his hand banging against the the table. Martin winced. 

“M-Martin! I didn’t know you were, ah.”

“I basically live here now, Jon. Remember?”

Jon made a little “humph” noise and turned back to the microwave. “It’s morning tea, if you must know.”

“In the microwave?” Martin demanded. 

He shook his head disapprovingly, but couldn’t hide his fond grin. Jon was exactly the sort of person to make tea in a microwave. It really wasn’t fair how warm Martin felt in his stomach. 

“It’s just fine, thank you,” Jon said waspishly as he removed the tea. He glared at Martin as he took a sip, and Martin’s tongue burned with heat and bitterness. Jon immediately made a face that he tried to hide.

“Jon,” Martin said. “Is it terrible.”

Jon gave him a tight-lipped smile and took another sip. He grimaced, then quickly erased that grimace from his face as if Martin wouldn’t notice. As if Martin didn’t know it was bitter. “It’s fine. I made it just fine.”

“Jon.” Martin could barely suppress a giggle. “Would you like me to make you another cup?”

Jon’s expression was overtaken by relief as he poured his tepid tea out into the sink. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Have you had breakfast?” Martin asked as he fired up the hotplate teakettle. Jon hovered awkwardly over his shoulder, clearly unwilling to give up control of the process.

“So,” Jon said, “I had a few statements I was hoping you could help me record.”

“Jon. Have you had breakfast.”

“No,” Jon muttered. 

“There’s some cereal in the cupboard. Get yourself some.”

“I’m fine.”

“Get yourself some breakfast or no tea,” Martin threatened. 

“I’ll make my own.” 

Martin looked Jon in the eye and switched off the teakettle.

“Okay, okay, I’m getting some cereal,” Jon grumbled. 

“There you go!” Martin sang. “I don’t think I want to know what your eating schedule looked like before I started living here.”

Jon grumbled something indistinct. Martin watched him fondly as he unsuccessfully reached for the top cabinet that contained the cereal. He could almost pretend that they were living together. Like real soulmates.

Jon scrambled up onto the counter. 

“Need some help?” Martin snickered. “You, ah, can’t quite reach that.”

“I. Am. Fine. Thank. You.”

Jon punctuated his comment by grabbing the cabinet door, causing it to slam open into his face and knock him off the counter like a vaudeville character. Martin made a little “oof” as Jon crashed to the floor and Martin felt every knock and bruise. His leg didn’t feel quite right, and he almost stumbled as he rushed to Jon’s side.

“Ow,” Jon muttered as he pushed himself to his feet. 

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine! Stop asking!” Jon snapped. “You don’t need to fawn over me like an overprotective mother hen.”

Martin took a painful step back. “Oh. S-sorry. I’ll just, ah.” 

He reached into the top cabinet and set a box of cereal down on the counter. He immediately regretted it as Jon met him with a seething, steaming glare. Martin’s stomach dropped. 

“I’ll, um. I’ll get started on my work.”

He turned tail and power-walked out of the room. He bit down on his lip as he scurried back to the Archives to record some statements—an endeavor he was trying very hard to get used to. Jon still didn’t trust him with something so simple as a tape recorder, or even finding another way to record those glitchy statements.

Martin was glad that he was careful not to get injured. He didn’t think he could take it if he got some sort of noticeable cut or bruise, only to see Jon unbothered and unblemished.

* * *

“I can’t watch this,” Martin groaned. 

He rushed behind a rickety filing shelf just as Sasha plunged the corkscrew into Jon’s calf, and bit down on his hand to muffle his whimper as he felt the metal burrow into his own leg. It was slow, too slow, as Sasha carefully dug for the worm. The sharp point probed at his flesh, and Jon cried out in pain. Martin had no such luxury. Tears welled up in Martin’s eyes, and he couldn’t tell if they were from hearing Jon’s agony or feeling his own. His teeth dug into his palm. He hoped Jon wouldn’t notice. He slid to the floor and pressed one hand down on the burning wound in his calf as blood percolated through the fabric of his jeans, while his free hand fumbled for some gauze. His portable first aid kit was hopelessly inadequate, but he managed to stop the bleeding. Hopefully the others wouldn’t notice. Fortunately, he wasn’t so far gone that the wound went as deep as Jon’s.

Martin gritted his teeth and tried not to limp as he returned to the others. His jeans were dark, but they’d still see the bloodstain if they looked.

“Finished being sick?” Jon snapped. His face was flushed and his eyes were rimmed with red.

Martin scowled at him. He didn’t have time for this, not when both of them were bleeding and probably about to die. Jon gave him a look that, to Martin’s optimistic imagination, seemed almost apologetic. For a moment, Martin was angry at Jon for causing all this pain, for being such a dick that Martin had to hide his bleeding. Then Martin just felt incredibly guilty. None of this was Jon’s fault. Martin just had to grin and bear it.

* * *

He just had to keep running. Martin panted as he tried to retrace his steps back to the Institute and Jon and Tim. He skidded to a stop as he heard the writhing of worms around the corner, cursed, and turned back around. 

He felt a little jolt against his side—presumably Jon had crashed into something. He rushed into a room and slammed the door behind him, then slid to the floor and pulled his knees to his chest. 

He couldn’t help Jon and Tim. He couldn’t get back to the Institute. He dug his fingers into his legs and sniffled. The room was dark, and Martin could pretend he was somewhere else. 

Martin yelped in shock, a gasp torn from his throat as the first hole appeared in his skin, then screamed in pain as writhing and wriggling mouths tore through him, digging into his flesh, invading him, sending jolts through his muscles. Martin spasmed to his feet and clutched as the doorknob as blood started trickling down his back. Was the darkness from the lack of light or his slipping consciousness?

He stumbled out into the hallway and immediately fell to the floor. The dirt burned like fire against the bleeding holes in his hands. The scream of a million voices echoed down the tunnel. Prentiss. The Institute. He had to make his way back.

He left streaks of blood on the dust behind him, and collapsed into blessed unconsciousness before he even figured out which direction the ladder to the trapdoor was.

* * *

“Do you need help?” Jon asked.

“N-no, no, I’m fine,” Martin told him, awkwardly lowering himself into his chair and leaning the crutches against his desk. “Thank you. But I’m fine. Really.” He winced as he picked up his files with bandaged hands.

Jon sighed. Martin had apologized profusely for leaving Jon and Tim behind, which didn’t feel fair at all, because Martin had it the worst out of all of them.

“Do you want tea?” Jon offered. “I could make tea.”

Martin hadn’t been making much tea lately—he tried on good days, but getting to the break room required climbing a flight of stairs. Jon couldn’t imagine the pain he was in—he’d received the same sort of injuries as Jon, but instead of passing out immediately, had apparently walked on his injuries for a significant amount of time trying to get out of the tunnels. Jon had tried to convince him to take more time off, as Martin’s work as an Archivist would suffer if he took a long time to recover, but he’d refused. 

Martin offered back a weak smile. “No offense, Jon, but I’m not taking tea from someone who makes it in the microwave.”

“There’s no difference,” Jon huffed. “I’ll be in my office.”

He shut the door behind him with perhaps a bit more vehemence than necessary. His scabs were starting to fall off, and everything itched from his bandages to his dermis. And Tim and Martin held the same marks, an eternal reminder of the worst day of Jon’s life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin gets stabbed in more ways than one

Martin wasn’t sleeping well, needless to say.

The wounds were the biggest problem. He woke up panting in the middle of the nights with the memory of phantom worms wriggling under his skin, and even when he wasn’t having nightmares, the itching of the healing wounds and the lingering ache in his leg were more than enough to make sleep difficult.

As if that wasn’t enough, by the time his body was feeling mostly okay, he started having different problems. 

He would wake up at about 3 a.m., breathing heavily, his legs sore and his eyes twitching, feeling undeniably as if he was being chased, or chasing something, he wasn’t quite sure. It wasn’t bad—barely noticeable if it weren’t for his light sleeping. The kind of thing he wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t alone in bed with nothing to do. He had a feeling it was something to do with Jon, but it wasn’t an injury. Which was worrying. Martin had thought he had kept his feelings in better check. 

Jon, of all people. Really. Jon snapped at him, brushed him off, looked at him with disdain and suspicion. Yes, he had a nice ass. Yes, he was pretty. But that was no excuse for Martin to be feeling his exhaustion.

* * *

“Jon?” Martin asked, knocking unnecessarily on the door as he swung it open. Jon looked up, twitchy and suspicious as always. Dark bags under his eyes, his mouth curved in a frown. He obviously hadn’t shaved or cut his hair in quite some time. “I brought you tea.”

“Thank you, Martin,” Jon sighed. “Just put it down here.” 

He cleared away some papers to create open space on his desk. Martin raised an eyebrow. Since Prentiss and the discovery of Gertrude’s body, Jon had gotten steadily more disorganized.

“Are you okay?” Martin asked. “You look like you haven’t been sleeping.”

He’d learned to sleep despite Jon’s restlessness, taught his body to distinguish between his heartbeat and that of Jon’s using some techniques he found online. Such soulmate sensations were apparently a common nuisance. Still, he was worried about Jon. 

“It’s none of your concern,” Jon replied, seemingly lacking the energy for venom. 

It was very much Martin’s concern. Even though it no longer kept him up at night, he still knew when Jon was tired to the bone, which was all the time, and Jon seemed to be gaining no inverse benefit from Martin’s good nights of sleep. But explaining that would involve explaining the whole soulmate thing. Which he didn’t want to do, no matter how obnoxious Jon’s insistence on self-sabotage was. 

“Please get some sleep tonight,” Martin requested. 

Jon gave him a bewildered glare. Martin just set down the teacup on the desk, taking a moment to let his eyes linger on how Jon’s rumpled button-up implied his collarbone. He knew exactly the pattern the scars traced under that shirt. God, he wished he could take that shirt off, comfort the scars they shared—

Where the hell had that come from? Martin shook himself as he left the office.

* * *

Martin held a tea box in each hand. Did Jon like licorice or chamomile? He never seemed to complain about Martin’s tea, but Martin wanted to try something new. He was taking too long in the shop. Jon would snap at him when he got back. Martin sighed and threw both boxes into his basket of break room essentials. Elias was nice enough to allow them to claim the snacks as expenses—an extra box of tea wouldn’t hurt.

Martin gave a startled, crying yelp as a something twisting, something heavy, something wrong speared slowly into him—he sobbed pathetically through gritted teeth against his tearing muscles—and a gash opened up in his upper arm. He hissed in pain and clapped his free hand to the wound. It throbbed and burned and bled against his fingers as the basket clattered to the floor. He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached as the implement was pulled out. Whatever it was was spearing yet twisting—oh God, had Jon gotten stabbed with Martin’s corkscrew?

“Are you all right?” asked a concerned woman who’d been browsing the hot chocolate. 

Martin managed a weak smile.

“Fine,” he wheezed. “Just—didn’t expect that. I’m gonna. Ah.” 

“Do you need a hospital?” asked the woman. 

Martin shook his head and pulled the first aid kit from his satchel. He bandaged the wound right there in the aisle with neat, deft, practiced movements. The woman shrugged and moved on. It wasn’t an unusual sight to see someone treat a soul wound in a public place. He ended up having to return some of the items he’d picked out so he could carry all the bags with one hand.

Martin waited for more wounds to open as he hurried back to the Institute, but none came, which was good, because it meant Martin didn’t have to call someone and tip his hand. Still, he couldn’t help that weaving current of anxiety that twisted through his stomach. Was it just an accident, or had Jon pissed off the wrong person?

He found Jon in the break room, wearing only a sleeveless undershirt and ineffectually trying to treat his wound. He grumbled in frustration as he tried to tape on gauze with one hand, but the wound just kept bleeding, staining his arm.

“Are you all right?” Martin asked innocently.

“Fine.” Jon grimaced. He started wrapping the bandage, but the gauze was already slipping off the wound. “Not to worry, just, ah, cut myself with a bread knife.”

Martin raised an eyebrow. The bread knife was still in the block, and there was no hint of blood around the counter. Besides, Martin had felt that wound—it sure as hell wasn’t a bread knife.

“Did you, now,” he said flatly. “Jon, you can tell me what happened.”

Jon glared at him, a look Martin was long past being fazed by. “I just did.”

Martin was tempted to tell Jon exactly how he knew he was lying, to reveal his hand and watch Jon’s face finally lose a bit of that arrogance. 

Instead, he offered, “Do you want some help with that?”

Jon scowled at his substandard bandage job—the wound was already totally uncovered and he’d ruined three squares of gauze—and gave Martin another suspicious look. Martin was getting really tired of those looks, and he wasn’t even sure if the nuclear option of telling Jon they were soulmates would make those looks go away.

“No offense,” Martin continued, “but you’re not really good at that.”

Jon winced as he peeled away the last gauze. “I suppose I could use some help,” Jon grumbled reluctantly, and Martin rushed to his side, fumbling for some latex gloves. “Wouldn’t want to bleed all over the statements.”

Martin sighed as he peeled away the last of the ruined bandages and started cleaning the blood with wet paper towels. 

“You know, it’s not illegal to take care of yourself for your own sake.”

Jon just made an indistinct grumble at that. Martin made sure to keep his touch delicate as he squirted on some neosporin. Fortunately, even though Jon probably wouldn’t say if it hurt, Martin knew exactly how much pain he felt and where. Jon gave a little noise of discomfort, and Martin felt a twinge in his own arm as he taped on the gauze.

“Much better,” he murmured at the neat square of white. 

Martin stood upright, and suddenly their heads spun sickeningly. He knew it was their heads because of how Jon gripped the table, and Martin realized exactly how much blood they’d lost. 

He cursed under his breath. He really shouldn’t have left this to his own inexperienced treatment. 

“I’m not bad at first aid,” Jon insisted, and Martin felt his jacket sleeve start to soak with blood. “It’s just, you know, one arm.”

Martin had thought he’d treated his parallel wound just fine. He had to finish his first aid, and then they’d go to the hospital. He could feel Jon’s cool skin through the gloves as he began to wrap the bandage. As he did so, he let his tired eyes trace Jon’s collarbone, landing on the pattern of scars he knew so well. Maybe one day he’d kiss those scars. Jon was scrawnier than Martin had thought, and his arms were bony. His skin was mahogany, dotted with halos, and Martin wanted to see more of it.

He’d lost a lot of blood.

“Are you done with the bandage?”

Martin realized he’d been staring. His cheeks burned as he muttered an apology and finished wrapping the arm. 

“Does it really need that much wrapping?” Jon asked.

“Yes,” Martin snapped. “You are going to the hospital now.”

“It’s not that deep!”

Martin gestured to the pool of blood on the table Jon had been sitting at.

“No. I am going back to work.”

Jon stood up and immediately swayed on his feet. He rested against Martin, his eyes unfocused, one hand splayed against Martin’s chest.

“I’m fine,” he muttered. 

He took a step forward and fell as soon as Martin no longer supported him. Martin caught him in his arms—Jon was light, and seemed to fit perfectly in the crook of Martin’s elbow.

“I’m calling an ambulance,” Martin breathed.

* * *

The wounds ended up needing five stitches, and Jon still insisted he’d managed to stab himself in the bicep with a bread knife. (Martin just got his stitches a day later, because Jon would have been suspicious if he’d stepped out to get treated. Not that Jon had really wanted him there.) Still, the doctors insisted Martin remain to see Jon home safe. It was late, and he’d lost a lot of blood.

“Thank you, Martin,” Jon mumbled on the Underground.

“Anytime.” Martin grinned wickedly. “But since you’re apparently so bad with cutting things that you managed to stab yourself in the upper arm, how about you come with me to lunch tomorrow? There’s a deli down the street that I go to a lot that I think you’d like. And the best part? They cut your bread for you. I’m just so terribly worried about leaving you alone with bread knives.”

His own, untreated, non-bread-knife cut throbbed.

Jon’s eyes darted from side to side and found no escape from Martin’s web. Good. If Martin had to use manipulation to get him to either tell the truth or take care of himself, so be it. Either way, at least Jon would make a healthy choice. 

“Fine,” Jon groused. “But I’m coming right back to the office.”

“Sounds good!” Martin said cheerily. 

Jon gave him a look that was trying valiantly to be irritated.

* * *

Jon suspected them all of murder. 

This was undoubtable. Tim ranted about it—grumbled about it, more like—every day. 

Jon glared at Martin with ever-suspicious eyes over their regular lunches. He held himself like a feral animal reluctantly accepting food, and it nearly made Martin laugh bitterly. He wanted to shake Jon by the shoulders, yell some sense in him, ask him how the hell he could suspect his _soulmate_. But that would no doubt be counterproductive. Maybe Jon would suspect Martin even more—who knew how his mind worked? Martin knew he’d never hurt Jon, and that would have to be enough. And Jon would never hurt him.

That didn’t mean Jon wouldn’t hurt anyone else. And Martin had to protect Jon.

* * *

Jon wasn’t hurt, which was a relief, but Martin couldn’t feel their bond as him and Tim raced through the tunnels, then walked through the tunnels, then collapsed against a corner in the tunnels.

“Hell of a way to die,” Tim chuckled wearily, slumping against Martin’s shoulder.

Martin had seen Micheal’s twisting fingers, and he had a suspicion regarding what had given him his “bread-knife” scar. If he died here, he had left Jon with no scars to miss.

“We’re not going to die,” Martin said. “We’re going to get out of here, and we’re going to save Jon.”

Tim gripped his hand. “Why do you do that?” he asked wearily.

“What?”

“He’s been nothing but awful to you,” Tim muttered. “To all of us. Why fawn over him?”

Martin sighed and leaned into Tim. “He’s my soulmate.”

Tim stared up at him, eyes wide and spiraling. “What?” 

“Yeah. So. I don’t have much of a choice.”

“Christ! Now I’m just more mad.” Tim’s fingers traced the round scars at Martin’s wrist, and Martin shivered. “He hurt you because he doesn’t bother to think of others.”

“That’s not true,” Martin said. It was hard to keep what they say true in that place.

“Still, that explains a lot,” Tim said. He grasped Martin’s wrist. “Are you really hoping that he’ll, what, fall in love with you?”

“No,” Martin said. 

Tim tucked his head into the crook of Martin’s neck. 

“You deserve better,” he said. “When was the last time you got laid?”

Martin sputtered. “W-what?”

Tim’s eyes were manic now, and his fingers were moving a bit wrong as they gripped Martin’s thighs, and Martin found he didn’t mind.

“We might die here,” Tim said, “and you’re hung up on your asshole soulmate, and we’ve got nothing but time and lies here, so why the hell not?”

Tim wasn’t Jon. Tim wasn’t Martin’s soulmate. Tim made his cheeks hot and his pants tight, yes, but he couldn’t make Martin’s heart skip or his face break into a grin.

Tim was one thing though: he was right.

Martin pulled Tim into his lap and let him bite the scars Jon had given him. He gave Tim what he wanted, and Tim gave him something he couldn’t have. 

And it was good, Martin thought, as they lay there naked and panting on the ugliest carpet Martin had ever seen.

“We should probably never speak of this again,” Martin murmured as he traced his fingers over Tim’s round scars, pretending they were Jon’s.

Tim’s expression was unreadable. “Agreed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch me on tumblr at ceaselesslywatched


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things remain unspoken.

Jon knew he didn’t have a soulmate, or if he did, he hadn’t met them yet. If he did have a soulmate, they would’ve dragged him down to the Bureau to file for decoupling long ago. Decoupling was a long and painful process, but it couldn’t possibly be more painful than getting eaten by worms.

Georgie wasn’t his soulmate, and he wasn’t hers. They’d know that for a while, almost since the beginning. The fact had never impeded their relationship, but it had definitely left a shadow over it, and Jon hadn’t actually dated since. He didn’t want a soulmate—he was more than aware of his predilection towards injury, and he didn’t want to subject anyone else to his wounds. He didn’t want the rejection a soulmate would inevitably serve him. And not many people were willing to date outside of a soulbond, especially not with Jonathan Sims. People without soulmates went for guys like Tim Stoker—hot, available, and actually comfortable with sex in a variety of contexts. Not guys like Jon. Jon was a man sharper even than the paper that cut his fingers, more bitter than the coffee he hated, and totally unable to deal with people. Even a soulmate would find him intolerable. Jon had known this for a very long time. 

Jon was relieved he had no soulmate. They’d probably get dragged into the murder investigation.

That, of course, turned Jon’s thoughts to his coworkers—the closest thing he had to friends, really, which was a bit depressing. He hoped the police weren’t giving them too hard a time.

Tim was probably off the hook—his hatred of Jon had been made plain to anyone who would listen. Sasha was dead. And Martin—well. Martin was the closest to someone that Jon had been in a long time. It occurred to Jon that he really needed more friends, since “closest” in this context meant “went to lunch a few times and also I snapped at him a bunch but he brought me tea anyway.” If anyone would fall under suspicion of accessory, it would be Martin. Which meant he was being watched, both by the police and whatever else seemed to have made it its business to ruin Jon’s life. Which meant Jon couldn’t contact him. Jon was surprised at how disappointing this revelation was. He’d come to rely quite a bit on Martin, on his tea and his smiles and his conversation that never gave up no matter how bad things got. 

Jon suddenly felt another wave of guilt. Sasha was dead because of him. He’d treated Tim and Martin rather unfairly, and Tim was the only one with the decency to hate him. Tim and Martin had been eaten by worms, for Christ’s sake. Because of Jon.

The guilt threatened to burn Jon alive. Thank God he didn’t have a soulmate to pile on the kindling.

* * *

If Jon was a murderer, it wasn’t in self defense. No defensive wounds on Martin’s arms—no wounds at all, actually, had appeared since he and Tim had emerged from the tunnels. Not that he was letting that fact slip. As far as Officer Tonner knew, Jon had no soulmate. 

Things were...well, not totally normal, but surprisingly so. Elias had wasted no time declaring Martin the Interim Head Archivist—Interim, because Elias seemed weirdly insistent that Jon would return. 

At least Martin’s scars remained, meaning Jon wasn’t dead. But he was probably in danger. Not that Martin knew anything. He had no idea what to do in any part of his life, not even his work. It became very clear that, while Martin could cope with following Jon’s orders well enough, he had no idea how to run an Archive, and he suspected Jon didn’t either. Why had Elias made them Archivists?

And as if that wasn’t enough, he had to train a new assistant. Really, Tim should have done it, but Tim had taken to playing Candy Crush to pass the work hours away, so Martin was left to fumble his way through Melanie’s training, panicking under her probing questions that he had no idea how to answer. He took to being short and snappy with her—he really didn’t have the patience to deal with her finding out he was a high school dropout. Which meant that Martin wasn’t really talking much to Tim or Melanie. Melanie, okay, he could understand, but Tim? 

It wasn’t that Martin wasn’t trying, but Tim seemed to have given up on everything since Sasha had gone missing. He responded to Martin’s tentative efforts at conversation with either bitter retorts or absentminded, one-word answers. Most of his responses hammered in the point that Tim hated the Institute with a passion, and on one such conversation, Martin had enough.

“If you hate the Institute so much,” Martin demanded, “why work here in the first place?”

“To find the thing that took my brother,” Tim answered, “but instead, this place just took my best friend.”

Tim immediately bristled, staring at Martin.

“Oh,” Martin said softly.

“I didn’t want to tell you that,” Tim said through gritted teeth. 

“Well,” Martin replied, baffled, “you...did.”

Tim crossed his arms and gave Martin such a glare that he took a step back.

“I didn’t. Mean. To tell you that.”

Martin threw his arms up. “Jesus, Tim, what’s gotten into you! I asked you a question, you answered, and now you’re mad at me because of what you said?”

Tim sighed, all the fight draining out of him as he melted into his chair.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” he said softly. “I didn’t want more mysteries.”

“I don’t know what’s happening, either,” Martin confessed. “I just...I just want everyone to be okay.”

Tim gave a single, humorless bark of a laugh. “I don’t think we’re going to be okay, Martin.”

Martin sighed. “I know. But maybe at least we can still be friends.”

Tim’s expression was a smile in the way that a Razor scooter is a motorcycle. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah.”

Martin knew it was a lie. They wouldn’t be friends. And it would be okay, if Tim would at least accept his cups of tea or get injuries for Martin to patch. But he didn’t, and he probably wasn’t even interested in hooking up again, and even if he was, they’d agreed not to mention it.

“I’ll make some tea,” Martin said. “Do you want some?”

“No thank you,” Tim replied.

* * *

All the drama of the Institute didn’t leave enough time or energy to look for Jon, but Martin tried anyway. Jon had no social media presence whatsoever, except for a webpage for his college band. The pictures made Martin take a double-take—Jon was wearing eyeliner! It was the kind of discovery that would have made their week before...before. 

The bandmates had since fallen out of touch, he knew, because he’d called every single one of them, and one of them turned out to be one of the cops chasing Jon down, which was awkward, but their pianist directed him to Jon’s college girlfriend, who Martin was meaning to call, but by then it was 9 p.m. on a Friday and the next morning Martin didn’t have the energy to do anything but sit on the couch, listen to The Mechanisms, and close his eyes, pretending Jon was there, singing to him.

He felt like Briar Rose, separated from the world by a pane of glass, hoping desperately for a sword or a kiss and not caring which one. It didn’t help that Jon’s singing and narration voice was gravelly and passionate in all the right ways, reminding Martin exactly who and what he was missing. 

When he did get up the energy to call Georgie on Sunday, she claimed to have no idea where Jon was, said she hadn’t seen him since their breakup, but Martin knew she was lying. He was pretty good at spotting lies. He didn’t have the energy to press it, though, so he thanked her and told her to let Jon know about the call if she saw him. And then he put “Our Boy Jack” on repeat in the vain hope that listening to Jon sing would wring a single molecule of serotonin from his brain, or at least make him feel an echo of the wonder he should have felt at finding out Jon was in a band.

It didn’t. Not even when Martin stared at a blurry picture of Jon onstage, pouring his heart into a microphone, legs clad in fishnet stockings and a ruffled skirt. He was so full of life in the picture. 

Jon was still getting little scrapes and bruises, and they lingered longer than usual. Probably because he didn’t have Martin to make him take care of them. Martin found himself staring intently at every little injury, as if he could use them communicate with Jon somehow. Tracing his round scars became a nervous habit, as their presence was proof that Jon was still alive. No major injuries yet, either, which was nice.

Until one otherwise uneventful Monday.

He’d just finished recording a statement in the office he refused to think of as his own, and was now researching some follow-up halfheartedly. The door was open, and Martin could see Tim on his phone with his feet up on his desk. Martin was technically Tim’s supervisor, but had never been able to bring himself to reprimand him, even when he really needed help. Melanie, meanwhile, was attempting to organize a filing box into submission. Just another bland day at the Archives, pretending their lives weren’t perched on the precipice of a downward spiral. 

Martin would likely be working here for the rest of his life, given they couldn’t quit. Not that that lifetime was likely to be very long.

The pain in his hand was sudden, incomprehensible, and Martin didn’t even have time to think about it or make sense of it before all he could do was scream. It was burning. His skin was melting. He fell off the chair and clutched his forearm desperately, as close as he could touch—his whole hand was on fire. He screwed his eyes shut and sobbed.

There was someone there. Someone was talking to him. Martin couldn’t even hear them.

The pain was agonizing. Lances and tongues of fire danced and speared up Martin’s arm. It left no room for other thoughts, except for the dim realization—memory—that the pain wasn’t his. Martin kept sobbing. 

Someone lifted him to his feet and half-carried him to—somewhere. Martin’s eyes were still screwed shut. He couldn’t register anything but the pain. The someone grabbed his forearm and started running his hand under cold water—or was it hot water? Was his hand burned to a crisp or frozen solid? The water helped, at least. His pathetic tears abated a little, and he heard someone—Tim, it was Tim—keeping up a running commentary of reassurances.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he soothed. “It’s just a little burn, Melanie’s called an ambulance, you’re gonna be okay but Jon isn’t because I’m gonna kick that bastard’s ass for hurting you, except wait, no I’m not going to do that because that would hurt you, but I’m definitely going to yell at him.”

“Leave...him...alone…” Martin whined through gritted teeth.

There was a steady, comforting hand on his back. Martin rested against it.

“I still don’t understand what you see in him,” Tim murmured. “Tell me, Martin. What do you like about Jon?”

“He’s, ah,” Martin gasped, choking out the words with difficulty. “I can tell he cares. About what he does. And about us, even if—ow—even if he has trouble showing it.”

Thinking about Jon got his mind off his hand. No doubt why Tim had brought up his soulmate.

“And he...I feel like he needs me,” Martin mumbled. “I remind him to eat and stuff.”

“Only you,” Tim sighed, “would view having to take care of someone as a plus. What else?”

The pain in his hand started to recede away in waves, no longer a sharp and burning brand but a dull roar. Martin opened his eyes and looked down at his hand, but only got a glimpse of raw red flesh before Tim grabbed his chin and forced Martin to look at him.

“Focus on me, Martin,” Tim ordered. “Don’t think about the hand. Think about Jon.”

Martin trusted Tim. He hazily remembered Tim saying something about a wilderness first aid course—he’d know what to do.

“He’s handsome,” Martin continued, glaring at Tim’s raised eyebrow. “I mean, in a...in a librarian sort of way. Strong cheekbones.”

“He looks like a rat,” Tim insisted.

“His hair would be soft if he washed it and I like the grey streaks. And his eyes are really pretty.”

Martin said more things after that, but by that point, shock was setting in despite Tim’s best efforts, and he couldn’t really process his words. Sirens echoed outside as the ambulance pulled up to the Institute. 

As he was driven to the hospital, all Martin could think was that Jon was on the run, and would have to treat his own wound himself. The thought made Martin sick. Hopefully the treatment Martin was getting would help Jon.

* * *

“Georgie Barker speaking, who is this?”

“Hey, Georgie. It’s Martin again. From Jon’s work.”

“Right. Look, I told you, I don’t know—”

“I’m not with the police,” Martin cut her off. “I just...shit. I need to find him, okay? I don’t think he’s safe. I think he needs help. I understand if you can’t tell me anything, but can you at least tell me if he’s okay?”

“And why do you care?” Georgie asked.

Martin waited a long time before answering. 

He wanted to tell her to tell Jon that Martin was his soulmate. That was Martin’s first instinct, but the more he thought about it, the more he was convinced it would do no good. Jon would be guilty or angry or both, and it might scare him off. Might convince him to run away further. 

“Because I care about him,” Martin told her simply. “I care about him a lot. And I need him to be okay.”

Now it was Georgie’s turn to pause.

“I’ll let him know that,” she finally replied. “If I see him.”

* * *

Elias gave Martin the week off after Tim helped him spin some lie about a misplaced artifact that had ended up in the Archives. Martin had no idea how Tim had managed to convince Melanie this was true—she didn’t seem to care much, which was probably a factor.

By Friday, Martin was pretty sure he’d be able to come in on Monday. His hand constantly throbbed, but at least it was his left hand. He kept researching Jon and came up with nothing. It was slow work, as he could only use one hand to use the computer. 

His flat was on the second floor, which is why it made no sense when he was struck with a vertigo so crippling that his breath left him in shock, then flooded back like wind was rushing past him. He clutched his chest and wheezed, trying to center himself, trying desperately to remind his body that he was sitting on his couch, to no avail. He was falling without ever leaving his flat. He was falling through an endless sky, and he was reminded of several statements, all of which ended in someone suffering or dying horribly. Was he going to die? Was Jon going to die? Was he falling to his death? He was pretty sure the soulbond didn’t extend to falling, so Jon was...suffering an injury? What the hell was he doing? Whatever was happening, it was unbearable. Small potatoes next to the hand, but unbearable and terrifying, and maybe this wasn’t the soulbond. Maybe Martin was having a heart attack—he’d certainly been stressed enough. But his thoughts were jumbled and his limbs were shaking and he couldn’t move his legs, let alone grab his phone to call for help.

This went on for about fifteen goddamn minutes.

When the hold on his chest finally released, Martin wheezed and gasped until his lungs felt full again—the air hadn’t left them, but it was hard not to feel like he was choking. He collapsed back into the couch and scrabbled for his phone. Once he grabbed it, he just stared at the screen. Who would he call? Georgie was no use, Tim probably didn’t need this in his life, and Jon had not answered the 23 voicemails Martin had left. Jon was suffering, and all Martin could do was sit in his flat. 

The crying was inevitable, really. Martin sat on his couch and cried his eyes out. It wasn’t a satisfying, wailing cry, but a tide of stifled sobs that just left him feeling empty. 

And then he felt the knife at his throat, and Martin called Basira.

* * *

“How did you know?” Daisy asked again as they drove back to the Institute.

“I told you,” Basira said. “It’s your usual spot—”

“I don’t mean the where,” Daisy said, her voice wary yet soft. She was never threatening with Basira. “I mean the when. Seems like a pretty big coincidence that you turned up exactly when I was taking Jon there.” 

“Martin called,” Basira replied.

“Martin?” Jon spluttered. “How did he know?”

Basira shrugged. “Dunno. Probably should have asked. But I was tired of sitting on my ass.”

How did Martin always seem to know when Jon was hurt? He’d called Basira in the nick of time. He’d called Georgie the day after Jon got his hand burned. And even before that, in the Institute, Martin always had a knack for walking in and offering first aid whenever Jon got a papercut or something worse. 

Jon had assumed that Martin just hovered rather than doing work. He found it annoying at first, but had grown to appreciate Martin always being there for him.

He hadn’t trusted Martin. He would now.

Jon insisted that Basira call Martin to let him know Jon was coming back. Apparently Martin was on medical leave, but agreed to come back to the Archives.

* * *

When they came back to the Institute, Martin was there, and Jon looked at him. Really looked at him. One of Martin’s worm scars took a bite out of his ear’s cartilage. Jon had a matching one.

“Jon,” Martin breathed. “Jon, you’re all right!”

Jon tried to manage a smile. Martin rushed up to give Jon a tight embrace that he gladly returned, both of them hovering their left hands. Jon noticed this, and tried not to assign meaning to it.

“I was so worried,” Martin told Jon’s neck. “God, Jon, you could have called me! You could have just told me you were okay!”

“I wanted to,” Jon mumbled. “I just didn’t want to get you in trouble.”

Martin was warm and soft, and Jon felt safe for the first time in—since Prentiss, really. 

“I wouldn’t have cared,” Martin replied, and Jon felt a little ache somewhere near his diaphragm, because of _course_ Martin wouldn’t have. Which was exactly why Jon made the right decision not contacting him.

“Hey,” Daisy snapped. “We have a job to do.”

They broke apart awkwardly, and Jon couldn’t help but notice that Martin’s left hand and part of his forearm was bandaged.

* * *

Even amid the slow terror of their meeting with Elias, Jon couldn’t stop thinking about Martin’s bandaged left hand.

* * *

After they left Elias’s office, Jon returned silently to the Archives, fully aware that Martin was trailing at his heels.

“Jon, are you—”

“We’ll talk in my office,” Jon told him.

His office looked like it had when he left it, but with Martin’s computer resting on the desk.

“I, ah, took over the Archives while you were gone,” Martin explained. “Sorry. I’ll move my stuff out now.”

Jon turned to him and looked at Martin, at the scar tissue tracing like buckshot down his face, at the white bandages wrapped around his left hand and forearm. 

“Martin,” he asked, “what happened to your hand?”

Martin gave him half a sad smile. 

“You know how it is here. Shouldn’t put your hand on the wrong book, and all that.”

Jon knew now that he could Ask. He could make Martin tell him. But he didn’t want to.

“Martin,” he tried again, “you know you can tell me, right? If something else is going on.”

Martin inhaled, long and shaky. 

“I can’t,” he said softly. “I…”

Tears started to well in Martin’s eyes. Jon reached up and wiped a stray one away, but that didn’t seem to help. Martin started to sniffle in earnest.

“Sorry, Jon,” he muttered. “Shit, I’ve been crying a lot, huh?”

“It’s okay,” Jon said, referring to much more than the crying.

He checked his watch. About dinnertime.

“You know,” Jon continued, “I could use some dinner. How about you.”

Martin gave a hiccuping laugh. “You never get dinner.”

“Well,” Jon said, “a friend of mine introduced me to this great deli. They cut the bread for you. Would you like to go get some sandwiches with me?”

Martin actually smiled at that, and his sheer radiance drove the breath from Jon’s lungs in a way that made Mike Crew pale in comparison. Jon was very glad to be back.

“I’d love that,” Martin said. “I’m glad you’re back.”

They walked to the deli in silence that wasn’t quite awkward and wasn’t quite amicable. As they ate, they talked about everything but their wounds. Martin usually asked after Jon’s injuries, but not now, not today, when the unspoken elephant sat heavy at their table. 

There was one injury they had to talk about, though.

“I, ah, have a confession to make,” Jon said.

Martin gestured for him to continue, his mouth full of sandwich.

“I didn’t actually stab myself with a bread knife,” Jon mumbled. 

Martin snorted. “Yeah, I sort of figured that out. I was there when they patched it up, remember?”

Jon looked down at his plate. He really thought he’d had Martin fooled. 

“So,” Martin asked, “what happened?”

“Micheal,” Jon sighed. “He has…”

“Long fingers,” Martin finished. “Yeah. We’ve met.”

“You’ve met?” Jon demanded. “What happened? Did he hurt you?”

“No, no,” Martin reassured him. “I mean, he threatened to kill Tim and me and then trapped us in some spooky hell corridors for I don’t know how long, but,” Martin chuckled nervously, “no scars!”

Jon nodded. He knew Martin had no new scars. 

“So you got stuck in weird hallways with Tim for a while,” Jon said cautiously. “How...was that?”

For some reason, Martin turned a violent scarlet.

“Better than being alone,” he said simply, and Jon felt another twinge of guilt for leaving Martin, even though he had no choice.

Martin’s round scars disappeared beneath his jacket, and Jon had a feeling he knew exactly what pattern they carved on Martin’s chest. But he couldn’t think about that. He couldn’t give voice to that horrible truth—that he had hurt Martin, had made Martin endure all that pain.

So he paid for their sandwiches, and he vowed to keep them both safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch me on tungle at ceaselesslywatched


End file.
